A blinding white light erupted from her palms. It wasn't a bolt of fire, but a wave of pure, stubborn life. Where it touched the Lich’s shadow, the darkness dissolved like ink in water. The Lich let out a hollow, metallic shriek before vanishing back into the depths of the forest.
Willow stepped forward, planting his feet. He began an incantation in a tongue that sounded like grinding stones. A barrier of shimmering light flickered into existence, catching a bolt of necrotic energy launched by the Lich. The air hissed. The smell of ozone filled the clearing.
Suddenly, the forest went silent. The birds stopped mid-chirp. From the darkness, a figure emerged—tall, skeletal, and draped in tattered black silks. The Lich. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. The ground beneath Elora’s feet began to wither, the grass turning to ash in a perfect circle around the dark sorcerer. A blinding white light erupted from her palms
Elora closed her eyes. She didn't think of queens or prophecies. She thought of the kitchens—the warmth of the hearth, the smell of fresh bread, the feeling of safety she used to take for granted. She reached for that warmth and pushed it outward.
"Elora! Now!" Willow shouted, his face contorting with the effort of holding back the darkness. "The spark is in you! Use it!" The Lich let out a hollow, metallic shriek
Beside her, Silas, the loyal squire, gripped his sword. He wasn't a hero of legend, just a man who believed in a promise. "Then we move faster," he countered, though the sweat on his brow told a different story.
Willow smiled, a rare spark of hope in his eyes. "That is exactly how it starts." A barrier of shimmering light flickered into existence,
"He's coming for us," Elora whispered, her voice cracking. "I can feel him in the air."